


Secrets & Keepers - Beware Us

by Maud Greyluck (MauraMaudJadeit)



Series: Secrets & Keepers [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Don’t copy to another site, F/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Potions Induced Non-con for both participants, Rape Recovery, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, albeit not very graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-06 01:50:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18841189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MauraMaudJadeit/pseuds/Maud%20Greyluck
Summary: Summary: When the Dark Lord had fallen Severus’s, life had fallen apart. After months of stumbling in the dark and with no purpose he begins to inch his way back into the land of the living. He isn’t the only one though.





	Secrets & Keepers - Beware Us

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything what you can recognize from the books. I do however own the plot of this story but I don't have profits because of it unless you count improving my English as a profit.
> 
> Warnings: Angst, plenty of angst, both internal and external. Past rape, discussion and references to thereof. Potion induced non-con for both participants. Rape recovery. Use of sex as a coping mechanism.

_what doesn’t kill you_

_doesn’t always make you stronger._

_sometimes it leaves you shattered;_

_broken in a million pieces,_

_and scattered to unforgiving winds_

_in this hurricane of pain_

_that never lets you rest._

_sometimes it leaves you weaker;_

_hoping for an end that will never come,_

_for a mercy that no amount of prayers_

_can give your dirty, bloodstained soul,_

_because you will never believe you deserve it._

_sometimes, what doesn’t kill you_

_makes you wish that it did._

_\- WHEN PUNISHMENT BECOMES REWARD | M.A.W (VIA DVOYD)_

 

**Secrets & Keepers: Beware Us**

 

When the Aurors came to take him to Azkaban, at the very last staff meeting of the year no less, he didn’t speak outside of stating his full name and date and place of his birth when he was asked for it. There was no point in making excuses and it wasn’t that he felt he had any. The Dark Lord’s brand was still visible on his left arm, paler than it used to be but still damningly present and he really didn’t see a point of denying the obvious. And it wasn’t as if he had any strength left in him to fight.

 

He only had one reason to fight and that reason was gone now. Left to rot six feet underground, pale and still and gone, gone forever.

 

He couldn’t make it to the funeral and probably wouldn’t make it if he could. Not because of Lupin or the Longbottoms or whomever else would come. But because seeing her coffin lowered to the ground would make her death final.

 

Rationally, he knew that she was dead. Dumbledore’s idea of jokes was making himself look like a fool. Cruel, elaborate cons involving multitude of people weren’t his style. If he told Severus that this pale, still form lying on a dingy hospital bed in one of the few quarantine rooms in Hospital Wing was Lily then it had to be her.

 

And he couldn’t even bring himself to walk into that room and hold her hand for one last time. He just turned around and kept walking straight ahead, unseeing and uncaring, until cold and foggy night gave way to rainy dawn and Hogwarts walls turned into a small clearing in the forest.

 

Minutes trickled into hours, hours into days and foggy and rainy November turned into icily cold and windy December. The world rejoiced the Dark Lord’s downfall and upcoming Christmas. Wherever he went the brightness and cheer blinded and deafened him so he had reduced the amount of time spent outside of his rooms to necessary amount needed for classes, meals and occasional patrol. His nights weren’t better.

 

He was always a light sleeper, self-preservation mechanism developed in childhood once his father’s drinking had slipped from occasional night of drinks with the guys into every single bloody night. Tobias Snape was an angry drunk even during times when he was employed and somewhat respected by his peers and when he wasn’t… it was never his own fault, always someone else. Usually Severus's, sometimes his mother’s until she had enough of that life and she simply left, walked away without as much as backward glance on a hot August night a week before the end of summer holidays before Severus's fifth year at Hogwarts. He hadn’t seen her since then.

 

When he slept, he slept very little, three hours at the most on the nights he managed to fall asleep at all. Waking up from nightmares filled with green light of killing curse or torture sessions he witnessed. Damned, traitorous, still alive when people better than him were not. Screaming his throat raw into quiet night because Dreamless Sleep potion had failed to curb his nightmares and there was only as much as his exhausted body could do to sustain any levels of Occlumency shields during the night.

 

He wished that he could fade. Like a vision from his nightmares into the night. To not be there at all.

 

The first night spent in Azkaban found him at the bottom of the prison, in one of the top security cells. Where Black was supposed to be held, that traitorous bastard. With that thought came back total clarity and awareness of his surroundings, the fog that surrounded him up until now was gone.

 

The North Sea outside wailed and raged and for the first time since Lily died Severus felt alive again. Alive, miserably aware of the Dementor outside of his door that kept dragging to the surface every miserable moment in his life it god-damn wanted to feed on and very, very tired.

 

So, knowing that after a night of any rest at all he would be more clear-headed to plan Black’s assassination he started raising his Occlumency shields until he was pleased enough with muting outside world to fall asleep.

 

 

**Secrets & Keepers: Beware Us**

 

On the day of his twenty-second birthday, like through past twenty-one days, Severus woke up to the sound of screaming. There was no light in the room and the torches on the corridor weren’t burning yet but the shade of the sky outside his tiny window indicated that they will be soon. Then, few minutes later, a solitary guard will make his round along with Severus’s breakfast, because he was an old fart weeks away from retirement and Severus was the only prisoner in that particular part of Azkaban so why the fuck he should bother with unnecessary rounds.

 

He shouldn’t be complaining. For a Death Eater he really had nothing to complain about, or in fact to. His cell was in freshly renovated wing dedicated to short term prisoners. Granted it was still Azkaban and any time spent in here was supposed to be a punishment.

 

He was a Death Eater. He wanted to be one. He accepted the Dark Mark willingly and he had done atrocious things for the Dark Lord. He tortured people in his name, he killed people in his name. Nameless and faceless. Muggle and magical. And he probably would keep doing it if the Dark Lord didn't go after Lily Evans.

 

Seeing the target painted on her back, the target he might as well painted there himself was his wake-up call. The beginning of his atonement, the start of spying, lying, deceiving the Dark Lord even if it meant being tortured with Cruciatus and eventual death.

 

He deserved Azkaban and he marched in there with his head held high when the Aurors came to arrest him, during the last staff meeting of the term no less. At the very least they didn't march him out of the classroom full of students because that would be Marauder level of humiliating.

 

Speaking of Black, they were both there, locked within walls of Azkaban. So close and yet so far apart. Granted he didn’t know the exact number of Black’s cell but Severus’s first night in Azkaban was spent in a Death Eater wing, heavily guarded by the Dementors part of the prison. Black had to be somewhere around there. He might have been even the one whose screams eventually woke Severus up when finally succumbed to an uneasy sleep.

 

Then, before he had a chance to properly plan an assassination on Black, without a wand or even the exact location of the bastard, he was moved upstairs. According to the guards it was because his case was still pending and Wizengamot liked to have him easily accessible. Severus didn’t point out that if that was true, he wouldn’t be in Azkaban but rather in a holding cell in the Ministry of Magic. No, his quite sudden and drastic change of cells felt like a political manoeuvre. One that cost virtually nothing but could have been enough to keep a scheming old fart like Dumbledore from trying to get Severus out of jail, after all concessions in his case had been made.

 

He could take it, those concessions and a lifetime in prison. Unlike top security cell that consisted from three walls, ceiling, floor and barred door with a stack of hay in one corner and a bucket in the other he had a proper bed and a proper toilet. Granted the mattress was absurdly thin but sleeping on a rickety bed beat sleeping on a hay covered floor. But what was the most important was the lack on Dementors in this side of the prison. Their presence within the walls was still felt but it wasn’t anything Severus couldn’t handle. After all he was a skilled Occlumenist and he had a goal. He only needed a plan and in order to execute it he needed to be in top shape or as best as he could get himself into one in Azkaban.

 

But like his grandmother Agatha used to say, ‘When man makes plans, God laughs’. Except this time no one was actually laughing.

 

**Secrets & Keepers: Beware Us**

 

“Why?” he rasped out when he was gently deposited in the armchair in his quarters, the words left his mouth before he could stop himself.

 

“Because you didn't deserve it,” said Dumbledore. “Not to mention that locked in Azkaban you cannot do anything. Like convincing the old crowd that just like the rest of them you are binding your time for the Dark Lord's return. And I need you to be there when that happens.”

 

“You're forgetting that they hex first and ask questions later,” muttered Severus. “And after being released from Azkaban into your care...”

 

“Into my care, into my school,” Dumbledore nodded. “You're an intelligent man, Severus. Do your math,” he raised his eyebrows.

 

“You want me to convince them that I'm still spying on you,” whispered Severus.

 

Dumbledore beamed at him.

 

“Do I still have to fucking teach?” sighed Severus. “I hate teaching. I have no patience for it. I'm surrounded by idiots who can't tell apart brass from tin and try to convince me that asphodel and wolfsbane are two different plants. For most of the time when I'm in a potions class I'm in actual mortal peril. I can be a librarian, wasn’t March muttering something about retiring...?”

 

“I already took care of that,” Dumbledore interrupted him. “Her replacement will arrive in May.”

 

“Bugger,” muttered Severus. “Gatekeeper then?”

 

“Hagrid is doing fine, so is Argus, before you ask,” said Dumbledore.

 

“I wasn't,” grumbled Severus.

 

“But you see, I'm in dire need of a Potions Master and Head of Slytherin. The last one I got was arrested.”

 

“Charming fellow he must have been,” snorted Severus.

 

“Everybody possesses a certain measure of charm, in their own way,” Dumbledore smiled. “Rest, my boy. Eat a proper meal, it’s too late for breakfast and too early for lunch but I’m sure that the elves would be happy to deliver you something special. Have a good soak and maybe a nap. I’ll see you at the staff meeting before dinner, six o’clock in the staff room. Oh, and happy birthday,” with that he turned around and left.

 

Severus groaned and hid his head in his hands. Happy bloody birthday.

 

**Secrets & Keepers: Beware Us**

 

He didn’t listen to Dumbledore’s sage advice, not completely at the very least. Instead of a good soak in the bath after incinerating his Azkaban’s rags he opted for a hot shower and thorough scrubbing to wash off the stench of the prison. Bath would be an unnecessary indulgence he didn’t need. The effect after all was the same.

 

Knowing that he most probably wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink he opted out of a nap and decided to make a very thorough inventory of his and hospital wing’s stores. For all that he knew Hogwarts had been devoid of any students during Christmas break but the term was staring in two days and who knew what those carefree idiots will come up with once the lessons would start again.

 

Venturing out of his living quarters required out of him getting properly dressed which in turn made him discover that during his incarceration, and probably in the two months leading up to it, he managed to lose a substantial amount of weight. Never particularly bulky and always tethering on the edge of being underweight in his childhood and early teenage years as an early adolescent when his height finally had settled on his six feet, he managed to put on enough weight to settle on still lean but healthy 165 pounds. Today, fully-clothed, with pants altered enough to not slip down his bony arse he found himself staring at the number 125.

 

Adapting his meagre wardrobe to fit him and ensuring that some stray ‘Finite’ won’t undo his transfiguration had taken enough time for him to miss lunch in Great Hall and had him eating lunch supplied by the elves. Finally, when the sun started setting, he was finally ready to leave his quarters.

 

Thorough inspection of his storage closets and Hospital Wing – blessedly Pomfrey free since she took advantage of students-free castle because she surely would bemoan his substantial weight-loss – occupied him until half past five in the evening and left him with slight dilemma whatever or not should he return to his quarters for few minutes before he should be leaving for the staff meeting. Granted he could simply just not show up but he immediately decided against it because Dumbledore would find him right after the meeting would end and he would be concerned and concerned Dumbledore was overwhelmingly overbearing Dumbledore, something Severus wanted to avoid. He needed peace and quiet before he was supposed to start teaching imbeciles again.

 

So, he decided to arrive early in order to hole himself up in his favourite armchair in the corner. With any luck the staff room would be empty and he would be the sole occupant of it for at least ten to twenty minutes, seeing as no one arrived early at the staff meetings that were happening outside of official term.

 

This time however when he opened the door, he realized that it wasn’t empty. The farthest and out of the way corner, the one which Severus usually claimed for himself when he arrived, was occupied by Filius Flitwick and a witch that Severus hadn't seen at Hogwarts when he started teaching. Both were so engrossed in their quite animated conversation that they paid Severus and his arrival no attention whatsoever. It wasn't that he tried to make it loud or known but Flitwick was usually more aware of his surroundings.

 

This time however all his attention was focused on the witch who was sitting with her back towards Severus but slightly turned to the right enough that he could see her profile, her aquiline nose and the curve of her jaw. Her hair was dark brown but the light from the sconce located behind her back was giving it an auburn hue which along with braided crown from which few strands were trying to break free was giving an overall appearance of a warm halo.

 

No wonder why Flitwick looked so pleased with himself. He was after all a man, a small one but an incredibly passionate one nevertheless. At the very least when it came to charms and music and Severus knew because he got himself in a very long and heated discussion about defensive spellwork with the man more than once, not only during last year but also during his very own school years. Plus, by wizarding standards Flitwick was still pretty young although it seemed that he was already out of Hogwarts by the time the witch outgrew her nappies. Whatever made the dragon fly.

 

“Ah, Severus,” Flitwick's voice tore him from his thoughts and made him focus on the smiling face of the older wizard. “Did you have a chance to meet our newest addition to the staff?” he gestured at the witch, who slowly started turning her head towards Severus. “If not, then Bathsheda, this is Severus Snape, our Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House. Severus, met Professor Bathsheda Babbling, she is replacing poor Graham.”

 

Flitwick might have said something after that, but if he did Severus ignored it and focused instead on meeting Babbling's eyes. They were brown, in a warm, honey shade of it but that shade seemed like the only warmth they held. Her lips, about a minute earlier curled in a small smile at what Flitwick was saying, now were set in a thin line that was neither a smile or a scowl. It was nothing.

 

He knew that expression or more precisely lack of thereof. He saw it in the mirror nearly every time he looked at it. This cold and dispassionate look that was designed to both provoke any reaction from anyone it was directed at and scare them off from doing so.

 

Memories were catching up with him. He didn't pay her as much attention as he ever paid Lily but nevertheless, she was in his year, in Ravenclaw, and was in nearly all of his advanced classes. She was also enough of a nuisance in some of them, most notably Arithmancy, that he devoted additional energy and effort to try and wipe that self-confident smile off her face. Which happened every now and then and usually ended with her making an extra effort to top his results, at least in Arithmancy.

 

When it came to Ancient Runes, she was so far ahead of her peers that old Graham who taught Ancient Runes had her sitting both OWLs and NEWTs exams at the end of their fifth year. She passed both with Outstandings which in return took her out of Advanced Ancient Runes class to immense relief of everyone who decided to continue taking that class on advanced level.

 

She was still in Ancient Studies though but there she had to work like anyone else. She probably ended working even harder than the rest of them because Graham was holding her work to a higher standard. Reportedly he had done so to any child of any curse-breaker he ever worked with for however brief period of time. That or Solomon Babbling proved to be quite a thorn in Graham's side at some point of time and all of his children had to work really hard to win him over.

 

Bathsheda obviously won seeing that she was the one succeeding him. But why she was doing so in the middle of the school year he didn’t know.

 

She stood up as he slowly started to bend down a little in order to reach for her hand. He might have been raised by a drunk skunk but said drunk skunk before he became one was brought up gentleman. Agatha and Thomas Snape were experienced governess and lived long enough to ingrain proper behaviour in young Severus.

 

Her move caught him off guard but he jerked his head and upper body back and froze with his right hand, only oh so very slightly, extended. A breath had passed and a solitary, sleepy fly buzzed somewhere behind his head, looking for a better resting spot probably. Then Bathsheda Babbling extended her hand.

 

She looked good, physically at the very least, he noted. She grew up since he last saw her and rather than having at least four inches over her he might now have only an inch and a half to half of an inch over her. She also lost weight, not enough to make her emaciated, since she wasn't gaunt to begin with, but a significant amount for a former NEWTs’ stress-eater to disappear into a young, healthy-looking and well-proportioned woman.

 

He extended his hand fully expecting a limp fish of a handshake but the hand that grasped his while delicate in built and slightly smaller than his was also firm. The handshake itself was perfectly timed and hadn't gone neither for longer or shorter than it was required before they both let their hands fall to their sides.

 

“Madam,” he said as he nodded at her.

 

“Professor,” she said, her eyes fixed on his, her lips curling into a slight sneer.

 

It wasn't a greeting, he realized and he sneered inwardly in response, ever the Ravenclaw. She had the title of a Master of Ancient Runes and it wasn't a Third-Class Mastery, one for which most wizards and witches (not that there were many of them to begin with) went if they needed a degree in Ancient Runes. Hers was First Class Mastery, acquired at the age of twenty-one which made her the youngest First-Class Master of Ancient Runes in a century and a half. And the last recipient of that honour not only was one of her ancestors and a man on that but was also thirty when that happened.

 

And since she was overachieving know-it-all and a Ravenclaw to boot practically raised in Ancient Runes the only reason it took her so long to gain First Class Mastery in Ancient Runes was because she was probably working simultaneously on her Mastery in Arithmancy. Probably went for First Class Mastery there too. Ravenclaw in her wouldn't accept anything less.

 

“Professor,” he corrected himself, smirking slightly to show her that he knew that she was annoyed with him.

 

Her eyes narrowed but she didn't say a word.

 

Oh, it was on and it was going to be so easy. But only as long as he stuck to Arithmancy, if he went for Ancient Runes, she would wipe the floor with him within ten seconds.

 

“How did you find Master Yeast?” Severus asked, knowing pretty well that old Yeast was in no condition to sit through a long meal without a pause, let alone through a First-Class Mastery exam since a single one of them took roughly six hours.

 

No. Severus was fairly certain that he was the last First-Class Master of Arithmancy old Yeast ever examined and he probably only done so because Severus's dissertation fascinated him due to their shared interest in connections between Dark Arts and Arithmancy and how to exploit them. And that was a year ago. Yeast officially retired shortly after that. There was no way Bathsheda Babbling received her title from the hands of the same man, one of the most renown Arithmancers in the century. Yeast's health wouldn't allow it.

 

“Annoyingly optimistic,” came a quick answer. “Considering his condition,” she added after a pause. “Make no mistake his mind is sharp, sharper than ever. That's what he keeps telling everyone who tries to look at him with anything akin to pity. But his lungs, that's another story. His healers aren't expecting him to survive another Christmas.”

 

Not a confirmation but Yeast liked to socialize with young Arithmancers going for First Class Mastery. He used to say that they were the only ones worth his time, that and a few exceptionally bright Second-Class Masters (like Severus had been at the time).

 

“Though he already proved them wrong and shortly after that he managed to administer the longest First-Class Mastery exam Congregation of England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales Arithmancers ever recorded,” she continued with a shrug. “And let me tell you, their chairs are lousy.”

 

“They are,” Severus agreed.

 

“Lousy when you're sitting in them for three hours,” she nodded acknowledging the length of the Second-Class Mastery exam, one which they both sat through although not at the same time, probably not even in the same year. “Now,” she continued with a small smirk, “imagine spending nine, extremely uncomfortably tiring hours in that chair for no other reason than having main examiner going into a coughing fit every few minutes. Prideaux practically begged him to let him take over. But you know Yeast, he will finish what he started even if it will kill him.”

 

“I didn't see a death notification and you're using present tense when speaking about him so it didn't kill him,” Severus retorted. “But that makes another record,” he observed.

 

“One I could live without,” she dead-panned. “As for the other one. It's not like it's hard once someone actually applies some effort into learning.”

 

“Spoke like someone raised in an ancient tomb,” Severus shot back. “You're forgetting that many commoners don't have your upbringing of generations over generations of curse-breakers.”

 

“I wasn't raised in an ancient tomb,” she objected vehemently.

 

“Pardon me, in close vicinity of one,” he smirked. “Doesn't change the fact that you had the privilege of knowledge in that regard long before your peers had learned the word rune.” He paused for long enough to take a breath before he continued, “I'm not negating your natural talent. All that I'm saying is that it had been nurtured from the very early age.”

 

“Like yours weren't. You're forgetting that I went to school with you, Half-Blood Prince,” she sneered. “Granted, it skipped a few generations but Sebastian Prince's fortune had to come from somewhere. It didn't come from stealing from the Potters.”

 

“No, it was the other way around,” Severus huffed.

 

Of course, she bloody knew about the old and seemingly forgotten feud between the Prince and Potter families. She was a Babbling and while neither Babbling nor Prince families were ancient or noble or had the history going as far as one of the sacred twenty-eight, they were both old and once respected pure-blood families. She might not be a pure-blood herself but her father was one. Or he might have been raised as one or by one seeing that his daughter knew something about an over one hundred years rumour.

 

“It was never proven,” she shrugged. “One way or the other. Maybe it was a coincidence.”

 

“A coincidence you say?” he sneered. “It might be a coincidence if that's the middle name Potter family had a habit of giving to their progeny. Otherwise I think not.”

 

Someone coughed. It wasn't Severus and neither it was Babbling. In fact, neither of them moved.

 

“Well if the Potter family universal middle name gets to be a coincidence then in the Prince family universal middle name gets to be vindictive,” she snorted.

 

“Slighted,” Severus interrupted her.

 

“Slighted?” she said, without rolling her eyes at him but he could practically hear her doing so. “Slighted people get angry and at worst they get even, at best they let bloody go. The Prince family done neither. They lived in spite, in the shadow of their ancestors’ glory, wasting their money without contributing any...”

 

“A wizarding genealogist are you now?” he sneered as he took a step closer placing his right hand on the table. It was either that or crossing his arms over his chest and the latter felt petulant and he didn't want to appear petulant. Not in front of her, not when she was supposed to start teaching too.

 

“I read,” she said as she too stepped closer, left hand touching the surface of the same table his hand rested on. “I like old gossip and what it reveals about people,” she smirked, she definitely had ammunition.

 

But so did he, he realized. She liked old gossip. No sane individual likes old gossip. New gossip, sure, it's in human nature to gather and exchange information. Old gossip though, old gossip is for historians... or people who need to keep tabs on some things. On some people.

 

But why?

 

Blackmail was the obvious answer but it was also a bad one. The Babblings weren't a political family and they were happy in their world of curse-breaking, ancient tombs, ancient runes and wards. They weren't widely popular but they were popular in the circles that interested them.

 

Reportedly handsome, charismatic, educated, well-travelled and popular. Too popular. Especially men and in some circles. More than capable of indiscretions. The rumour had it that some of the indiscretions received names. A plethora of them and that they were mostly given by Abraham Babbling, Solomon's grandfather and Bathsheda's great grandfather.

 

Bathsheda was the only Babbling Severus went to school with but he did see her family during their graduation ceremony and while he was no judge of male beauty, he was observant enough to acknowledge that the arrival of Babbling contingent had turned heads, especially of female students. Even though at least one of them was already married at the time.

 

Solomon Babbling might have been around eighty at the time and he appeared to be both looking and feeling his age back then but at eighty he was still in his prime. Granted towards the ending of it but life expectancy of wizards was greater than muggles by decades. It wasn't unheard of for wizards (and witches) to live past one hundred twenty years though with the exception of few individuals (like the Flamels) people didn't make past one hundred seventy. So old he might have been at the time but Solomon Babbling still had few decades ahead of him. As for his sons, the resemblance to their father seemed uncanny and one could easily tell that at each other’s age they looked or could look very much alike.

 

Black-haired, dark-eyed in a Mediterranean type. Judging by the tendency to use biblical names probably of Jewish ancestry but who knew for sure. Handsome, charismatic, educated and well-travelled. Troublesome if capable of indiscretions, and delivering shame to the family, especially if one was their wife, mother or sister.

 

That had to be it.

 

Following the gossip, new and old, not out of curiosity but by necessity born out of shame of being cuckolded. Shame of not being enough, doing enough to keep your husbands prick out of whichever cunt he put it in this time. Wondering whatever or not if the family fortune can handle an illegitimate child or taking care of the matter before illegitimate child becomes a problem.

 

Abraham's wife, Sarah, most probably primed all of her daughters, daughters-in-law and subsequent granddaughters to watch out for sings of husband having an extramarital affair. She probably insisted that they keep track of rumours because there had to be a grain of truth in every single one of them.

 

How bad things had to go for Mrs Babbling to start priming her only daughter to look for signs of an extramarital affair? When did it started? Was it only a precaution? A training in observation?

 

It was hard to gauge what sort of woman Mrs Babbling was in her youth upon seeing her just once at graduation. At the time she was already old, not as old as her husband was but perhaps within a decade away. That would make her about seventy at the time.

 

She definitely looked her age, knew that she looked her age and offered anyone an advice on what to do with that opinion if someone was foolish enough to approach her with it. She was tall, no taller than her husband or sons but in the sea of other witches she stood out slightly. She was also far thinner than many of them, gaunt and pale, with lips pressed into a thin line that was so pale that it seemed she didn't have them at all unless one took a very good look at her. Her hazel eyes appeared to hold no warmth in them and Severus never saw them settle on her daughter or sons or husband, at least not when he was looking, and since he was on his own, he had plenty of time to look at other people and their families.

 

Four children within two decades. Three boys and one girl, Bathsheda's brothers were gone from Hogwarts by the time she arrived – the oldest one looked like he was already gone from Hogwarts by the time his sister was born and the youngest supposedly graduated in the spring of the year Bathsheda was supposed to go to Hogwarts.

 

Handsome, charismatic, educated and well-travelled. Most likely raised single-handedly by her alone because her husband was either buried in an ancient tomb (probably both literary and figuratively at certain times) or digging close to one. Plus, if he was like any man from his generation Solomon Babbling wouldn't be interested in raising anything that wasn't capable of at least spelling its name properly which meant that it had to get there first by woman's work alone and a lot of it if the number of children was bigger than one.

 

Bathsheda, unlike her brothers, wasn't a splitting image of her father. She wasn't one of her mother’s either. No, the words that described her best were: paler and darker. Complexion paler than that of her brothers and father but not as pale as her mother and without her freckles. Warm brown eyes, not as dark as their father's and not hazel as the mother's, was the feature which all Babbling children seemed to share. Aquiline nose that looked like a blend between that of her father and that of her mother. Finally, hair, brown and reflecting light, very long and very curly but not as frizzy like her brothers' or father's black hair, far darker than that of her mother's.

 

In looks not Mediterranean enough but also not British enough. Not a conventional beauty, the last child, only daughter. Smart, very smart but still a pure-blood (or half-blood) from an established, wealthy family. Either already or soon to be sold to the highest, most influential and probably decent bidder.

 

Ah, the patriarchy at its finest. And Severus knew, because his maternal grandparents were the same.

 

Unfortunately for Severus's mother Tertius Prince, and his wife Elspeth, had no chance for inheriting what was left of family fortune. Not with Prince family inheritance law which claimed that the entire estate ought to be handed down the direct line to the next male with the name Prince. Granted the new heir was obliged to uphold the inheritance laws by acknowledging that what was already given by the previous heir to his relatives ought to remain with them for as long as they lived and any negotiations and renegotiations of the terms should be done after the passing of the initial recipient.

 

Seeing that Tertius (very unoriginally named) was the third, youngest, son of Maximus Prince he was on the bad inheriting spot to begin with which only got worse once Erastus and Ignatius decided to procreate. So, when it was his own time to produce an heir Tertius very fervently was praying for daughters, at least two, preferably four. All of whom he could sell on marriage contracts to the highest bidders.

 

It worked as well as expected. Instead of daughters Tertius and Elspeth had three sons within a decade and after another decade when their youngest son was supposed to enter Hogwarts their prayers had finally been answered and their only daughter, their hope for wealth that was independent from the main line of the family, was born.

 

Eileen Prince grew up knowing her family obligations. Tertius and Elspeth didn't bother to hide it and if they did there was always heir apparent, Titus. Her first cousin once removed and year-mate, who took nearly sadistic pleasure of reminding her who she was to her family and what she was supposed to do.

 

All it took was one good look at the husband to be for Eileen to run away from home without as much as backward glance. It was only a pity that when she done so she ran straight into Tobias Snape arms.

 

All of this, thought after thought, connection after connection, comparison after comparison went through Severus's mind in a time it took him to take a deep breath.

 

“Searching for long lost relatives, aren't you?” he asked with a smirk that showed a bit too much teeth but he was going for the jugular and he wanted her to know that he was going for the jugular.

 

Her smirk had faded into blankness, her back straightened, pupils dilated so fast and so much that her eyes seemed black and it seemed as if with each passing second the temperature in the room was dropping by a degree until he couldn't suppress a shudder.

 

For a 9th January in Scotland the room wasn't supposed to be freezing like that. The fire in both fireplaces was roaring so the room should be warm.

 

“At loss of words?” flew out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

 

Someone coughed.

 

“No,” she spat. “I was considering informing you that you are a bastard but we already know that and I dislike playing 'State the Obvious'.”

 

“That's new,” Severus snorted. “I distinctly remember you being a fan of State the Obvious. But we called it differently back them. Lessons, I think, we called it. Didn't we?”

 

“Speaking of lessons, one of the first lessons I remember receiving from my father was that a slander is like a hornet; if you can't kill it dead the first time you shouldn't strike at it at all,” she said, lips twisting in an ugly sneer.

 

Someone coughed again.

 

“Charming man,” Severus said, ignoring the intruder, glaring at Babbling whose eyebrows raised slightly.

 

It wasn't weak. It was moderate. If he really wanted...

 

Someone coughed again. Louder this time.

 

Babbling tore her eyes away from Severus and turning her head slightly to the left she asked, almost sweetly, “Do you require a cough-drop, Headmaster?”

 

That comment, swiftly followed by a weird sneeze that might have been a snort from Flitwick's direction, Severus turned his head to the right to glare at a twinkling very slightly Dumbledore.

 

“No, my dear,” Dumbledore smiled gently, as if reprimanding a petulant child. “I merely wished to draw your attention to...”

 

Whatever Dumbledore was planning to say was interrupted by the door banging against the wall through which a greyish green tornado had fallen into the staff room, clearly stumbling over its own feet either out of excitement or clumsiness straight into the back of the closest chair.

 

“Stupid robe,” Sprout huffed. “At this rate...” she started but upon looking at them she changed her mind and what came out of her mouth was, “Why is that table smoking?”

 

Smoking. If something was smoking generally it meant that something was burning or at the very least smouldering and close to burning. If the bloody table was smoking it was because, he, Severus Tobias Snape, First Class Potions Master, Defence Master and Arithmancer and double agent was bleeding magic like a prepubescent school boy.

 

He didn't need to look down to know that his right hand was resting mere inches away from Babbling's and that there was no way that she wasn't able to feel the heath emanating of his hand and the flow of magic.

 

Come to think of it, why wasn't she pulling away? Most people would have pulled their limbs away from sudden source of magical heat.

 

Finally, he looked down and almost frowned. The table wasn't on fire, it wasn't even smouldering. It was sparkling.

 

How? Why? What the hell...

 

...unless he wasn't the only one.

 

“Ever heard of smoking olive trees of Gethsemane?” Bathsheda asked swiftly, pulling her left hand away from the table just as Severus was pulling away his.

 

“No,” Sprout said, in a tone that sounded like she wasn't sure whatever or not she should be worried that there was something she didn't know, clearly not expecting that Babbling might be trying to fool her.

 

“Amazing wood,” Severus joined in. “Beautifully textured. Rich in colour.”

 

“Very aromatic,” Bathsheda nodded. “But deadly, very deadly if not handled well. Like all wood. But you were saying something?” she beamed.

 

“I wasn't saying...” Sprout started but mid-sentence she changed her mind and beamed at them. “You will never guess what I heard.”

 

“Of course, we never will,” Severus muttered.

 

In the few months he spent at Hogwarts as a teacher he never managed to guess whatever Sprout was going to say whenever she said that they won't guess what she was going to say next. Every time he leaned towards personal topic, she always brought up something purely professional and anytime he hazarded a professionally related news it was always a personal matter. It was annoying and he promised himself to not care but he did care because his life and his success as a spy depended on his ability to read people and being able to tell what was going through their heads.

 

“Minerva is getting married,” Sprout chirped.

 

What?

 

“Minerva?” Dumbledore asked. “To whom? When?”

 

“To an old colleague...” Sprout started.

 

“We are her colleagues,” Flitwick pointed out. “And trust me we would notice if one of us was courting...” he looked at Severus expectantly

 

“You are an old colleague,” Severus couldn't resist the jab.

 

“From the Ministry,” Sprout rolled her eyes. “Unless there's something you two would like to share with the class?” she asked.

 

“Only that she's old enough to be my mother,” Severus shrugged. “Come to think about it there was a point in time when she was at Hogwarts with my mother. So no, thank you very much, Pomona. To put it simply: eww.”

 

“Really mature,” Babbling muttered.

 

“You are the one to talk, Sparkles,” Severus shot back quietly.

 

“Do me a favour and disappear in a puff of smoke, Sparky,” she retorted equally softly.

 

He opened his mouth to sneer an answer to her retort when Sprout, still looking at Babbling, asked, “And you sweet girl are?”

 

“Bathsheda Babbling,” Babbling answered sourly. Being called ‘sweet girl’ didn’t seem to sit well with her. “I’ll be replacing Professor Graham.”

 

“Oh, I forgot,” Sprout mumbled. “I’m so, so...” Babbling’s mouth thinned.

 

“Pomona,” Flitwick interrupted her. “What do you know about Minerva’s particular colleague?”

 

Sprout stared at him with the same unsure expression she had few minutes ago when Severus along with Babbling tried to convince her that what she just witnessed wasn’t a spontaneous magic bleed. Then she shook her head and opened her mouth.

 

Something was going on and it picked Severus's interest.

 

“Speaking of colleagues,” he interjected before Sprout had a chance to answer. “While I’m sure that Professor Babbling will be a competent teacher, I would like to know what happened to Professor Graham.”

 

“As if you care,” Babbling muttered.

 

“I do,” he said simply. “He was a good companion and great chess-master. I wasn’t aware that he resigned.”

 

“It’s not like they deliver Daily Prophet to Azkaban,” Babbling replied.

 

“Bathsheda, please,” Dumbledore said calmly. “Graham didn’t resign, Severus. After our small gathering on New Year’s Eve he retired to his quarters and at some point, of the night he had a massive stroke. It didn’t kill him though and had he received help immediately, even within first twenty-four hours, the Healers at St. Mungo’s would be able to reverse the damage. However,” he paused.

 

“He was found by the only house-elf he ever let clean his quarters at the only time he allowed said cleaning to take place,” Flitwick grimaced. “Which happened on Sunday morning, at the minimum seventy-two hours after it took place.”

 

“By then all the damage was done and set,” Dumbledore added sombrely.

 

“And none of you noticed him missing for two consecutive days which makes, at the minimum six meals for a man who was nearly as indulgent in his eating habits as Slughorn if not more,” Severus asked sharply.

 

“We didn’t,” Flitwick sighed heavily.

 

“None of us stayed in the castle for three whole days and we all kept missing each other,” Dumbledore sighed.

 

“And the damage?” Severus pressed.

 

“Full-body paralysis. Fades in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he’s aware of what’s going on around him, sometimes he isn’t. The healers are doing what they can to ease his suffering but the outcome is looking bleak, very bleak,” Dumbledore shook his head. “I’ve been told to hope for the best and expect the worst. If,” he paused “he responds well to the treatment he might survive it, granted he’ll never recover completely since the damage is too extended but he should be alive and conscious.”

 

“Requiring around the clock care,” Babbling interjected quietly. “His best-case scenario is spending the rest of his life in St. Mungo’s.”

 

“And the worst is obvious,” Severus nodded.

 

Another death, one that didn’t happen yet, but one that, like the other, could be avoided if someone, anyone… He shook his head. It wasn’t time or place for going down that road. Not in front of Dumbledore and most certainly not in front of Babbling. Plus, Graham was still alive if just barely. There was still time to save him, maybe even fix him.

 

Babbling would stay, at the very least through the rest of the semester, maybe longer since Graham was grumbling about retiring since Severus was a student and since Severus started teaching his grumbles only increased in occurrence and length.

 

He could do that, at the very least he should try. He wasn’t going to let the man pass away without a fight and he was willing to fight dirty.

 

“Don’t you think, Severus?” Dumbledore asked him curiously.

 

“About what?” Severus asked sharply.

 

“At all,” Babbling suggested.

 

“More than you apparently do since it appears that you have no brain to mouth filter like an average Gryffindor,” Severus retorted.

 

“At least I’m not practising insults in front of a mirror,” Babbling shrugged.

 

It was only one bloody time. Back in sixth year they had a temporary replacement in Defence Against Dark Arts, an Auror on a health leave, who quickly developed a very strong dislike for Potter in particular in spite of Potter’s eagerness to win him over (probably in order to have Severus arrested for whatever Potter wanted to pin on him). By the end of the third week the man had enough of Potter and gave him a thorough dressing down in the middle of the classroom. It was a nearly three-minute-long tirade on Potter’s abilities, skills, knowledge, behaviour and overall appearance. Swift, accurate and without a single insult getting repeated.

 

Severus just had to try and memorize some of it in order to throw it in Potter’s face later and of course he had to duck into an unused bathroom to get himself caught cursing at the mirror by no one other than Ravenclaw’s prefect: Bathsheda Bloody Babbling.

 

“I distinctly remember apologizing,” Severus snorted. “Apparently not enough since it’s still affecting your sensibilities.”

 

“Oh, for the love of...” Babbling started.

 

“Bathsheda, Severus,” Dumbledore sighed heavily. “I’m not going to pressure you into becoming friends,” Severus glared at him and Babbling snorted something that sounded suspiciously like a curse, most probably in Hebrew. “However,” he paused and looked from Severus to Babbling, “I would like to remind you that you are both Professors of Hogwarts, one of the youngest Hogwarts staffed in a little over fifty years. You’re so young in fact that students in your OWL level and advanced classes will remember you from the time you yourself were students.”

 

“They aren’t going to eat us alive,” Severus muttered. “And you know that I can keep discipline in a classroom.”

 

“I do,” Dumbledore nodded. “However, I will still ask you to present a united front in front of the students. It will make all our lives easier.”

 

“I’ll be civil if he will,” Babbling muttered grimly.

 

“What she said,” Severus shrugged just as the door opened and McGonagall followed closely by Sinistra, Kettleburn and Vector walked inside.

 

“What she said?” McGonagall asked curiously.

 

“That congratulations are in order apparently,” Severus said swiftly.

 

“To whom?” Kettleburn asked.

 

“You, apparently,” Severus shrugged. “You still have the same number of limbs you had when I left.”

 

“Ha, bloody ha,” Kettleburn snorted. “Don’t quit your day job, Severus, you will never make a career as a comedian.”

 

“We were talking about your impending nuptials, Minerva,” Dumbledore said.

 

“They’re hardly impending,” McGonagall said sourly.

 

“However...” Dumbledore started.

 

“There’s no however, Albus, because nothing is going to change outside of me having a ring on my finger,” McGonagall interrupted him.

 

“Still...” Dumbledore tried again.

 

“Nothing changes,” McGonagall interrupted him again. “I’m getting married, not running away to whichever America is holding more appeal to runaways these days. I’m going to retain my positions as a Transfiguration Professor, Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House.”

 

“About that,” Dumbledore said. “Wouldn’t you like to be relieved of one of them?”

 

“On what grounds?” McGonagall huffed. “And by whom precisely?” she looked around the room expectantly. “Any volunteers?”

 

No one answered. Sprout became very interested in her shoes and Flitwick started inching towards the closest chair with his head hung slightly.

 

“Right,” McGonagall nodded. “Let’s face it, no one desires additional weight of paperwork and additional duties.”

 

“Also let’s not forget that you and Minerva are the only Gryffindors amongst the teaching staff,” Kettleburn added. “Last time I checked being Head of the House required being sorted into said house in the first place.”

 

“Hagrid was in Gryffindor,” Dumbledore said pensively.

 

“As much as I privately like Rubeus, I’m not going to even dignify that statement with a response,” McGonagall commented sourly. “Never mind his unfinished schooling they would eat him alive before they would try to take over the castle within a fortnight. No, Albus, I’m not going anywhere and I’m not dropping any of my additional duties.”

 

“But your husband...” Dumbledore started.

 

“Is a grown man aware of who he is marrying,” McGonagall interrupted him. “We agreed that the only thing that’s going to change will be my relocation to Hogsmeade. Any message sent via a house-elf will reach me instantly and I’m going to petition the Ministry for opening secure connection between our new house when we will find it, my office and Gryffindor common-room.”

 

“And that’s the reason why the lass is still Deputy Headmistress,” Kettleburn said cheerfully. “She will always have a counterargument for your bizarre ideas, Albus.”

 

“There’s also another one, Silvanus,” McGonagall eyed him. “Recently I received a word Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions...”

 

“Oops,” Flitwick coughed.

 

“They are perfectly safe,” Kettleburn protested.

 

“According to whom?” McGonagall hissed. “Your left leg?”

 

The door opened with a thud loud enough for Severus to take his eyes off the pair to look at the newcomer. Diego De Luna, Professor of Muggle Studies and one of the most pompous arses he had a displeasure of meeting (and that was saying something considering how much time Severus spent around Lucius Malfoy).

 

“Hello, gentleman, ladies,” De Luna said cheerfully and his smile had faltered when his eyes met Severus’s, “Death Eaters,” he added as his gaze slid past Severus and landed on Babbling. His back straightened as he said, “And you gorgeous.”

 

“De Luna,” Babbling spat. “Who died and made you a professor?”

 

“His predecessor,” Severus said sourly. “In very suspicious circumstances.”

 

“Admitting to something Snape?” De Luna growled.

 

“Yes, not even being in the country when it happened,” Severus shrugged. “You, on the other hand, were the last person who saw him alive, De Luna.”

 

“That’s slander and calumny,” De Luna spat. “I didn’t kill him, I left him in perfect health.”

 

“Apparently not perfect enough since he is – what is the word I’m looking for – right, there it is, deceased,” Severus replied.

 

“I’m not going to defend myself for you, you filthy scumbag,” De Luna snarled.

 

“It seems to me that the lady does protest too much,” Babbling mumbled loudly enough for Severus to hear it.

 

Severus couldn’t suppress a snort at that comment. Babbling hit the nail on the head dead on. De Luna in his appearance was as flashy as he was pompous in character. He loved drawing everyone attention and his wardrobe choices always drew attention, robes of the finest silk in obnoxious colours, like the red one he was currently wearing and on the top of that he wore an obscene amount of lace.

 

“Something funny, Death Eater?” De Luna spat. “Why aren’t you in Azkaban?”

 

“Because he was cleared from the charges brought against him,” Dumbledore said calmly. “And I would like you to remember that, Diego.”

 

“And who was the idiot who made that call?” De Luna hissed.

 

“That would be me,” Dumbledore said softly and he looked at the door. “Hector, do come in, we are ready to start.”

 

“A fight from what I’m seeing,” Hector Hubble, Defence Against Dark Arts Professor, said sceptically as he walked in. “I couldn’t find Binns,” he added when he sat down in the closest chair.

 

“Not a problem,” Dumbledore shook his head. “Come on, sit down and let’s begin.”

 

That prompted De Luna to make a brisk but dignified beeline towards Babbling, who realised about two seconds faster than Severus what De Luna was planning to do and was already walking around Severus and settling into a chair next to Severus and Vector before De Luna reached their side of the room.

 

The meeting started like the one before the beginning of the term, with lesson plans and Vector’s firm statement to not have her Arithmancy lessons scheduled at the same time as Ancient Runes and Ancients Studies were.

 

“Why do you care? It’s not like either of you will have overlapping students,” De Luna protested. “Say I don’t want my lessons to take place at the same time as Care of Magical Creatures because I’m losing students to Kettleburn...”

 

“You are losing them due to your own charm, De Luna,” Vector snorted. “That’s a first. Secondly, and that’s the main reason why I’m demanding that scheduling is the fact that I’ll be forced to leave Hogwarts in the spring...”

 

“Why?” De Luna interrupted her. “You’re bound by the same contract as the rest of us.”

 

“Because I’m pregnant, you prick,” Vector growled. “The child is due in late May and my family has a history of slightly premature births so while I’ll remain cautiously optimistic about caring the child to full term, I’m also not going to delude myself that it will happen.”

 

“And you’re admitting to that now?” De Luna spat. “You’re irresponsible...”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Babbling barked. “One could think that you’re the Headmaster and in charge of filling the vacancies in your teaching staff.”

 

Without having it show on his face, behind his Occlumency shields, Severus smirked inwardly at that comment.

 

“Speaking of which,” Dumbledore said calmly. “I was aware of Septima’s plans on expanding her family and I was also informed at the earliest convenience when her pregnancy was officially confirmed by the healers.”

 

“And her replacement?” De Luna asked sceptically.

 

“Is sitting right there,” Babbling said simply.

 

“You?” De Luna mumbled. “But you’re...”

 

“A First-Class Master in both Ancient Runes and Arithmancy,” Severus interrupted him. “Granted, she isn’t the only one,” he glared at Dumbledore, “but I’m sure she has some fancy clause in her teaching contract that makes her the best candidate.”

 

“I do,” Babbling nodded. “It’s called salary and it’s in your contract too.”

 

“I’m not planning on working two jobs,” Severus told her.

 

“No, you are working them already,” she said. “Aren’t you brewing for hospital wing on regular basis?”

 

“I do,” Severus confirmed. “I also know...” he looked at her pointedly.

 

That I’m not being paid additionally for it went unsaid. She looked back and she raised her left eyebrow at him. So that was that and he snorted inwardly. Clever man, Dumbledore, getting First Class Masters for positions which a decent Third-Class Master could fill in and paying them the same amount of money he would be paying Third Classers.

 

“The thing about Arithmancy and Arithmancers, De Luna, is that mastery of any kind requires not only dedication to learning the theories but an insane amount of practical work...” Babbling started.

 

“Every field does,” De Luna objected.

 

“Yours doesn’t,” Severus shrugged. “Yours only requires theory and occasional application of thereof, very occasional application of thereof. I can teach your lessons with my left hand tied behind my back while simultaneously preparing Pepper Up...”

 

“Severus,” Dumbledore sighed.

 

“Arithmancy finds application in nearly all fields,” Vector added. “Sure, you can get even First-Class Mastery without it. But if you’re planning on inventing anything on purpose rather than sticking to happy accidents you need at the minimum OWL level knowledge of Arithmancy.”

 

“True,” Flitwick nodded. “It also helps in backwards engineering with happy accidents as Septima put it.”

 

“Establishing limitations in Transfiguration,” McGonagall nodded.

 

“Tailoring potions to suit specific needs,” Severus added.

 

“Finding counters to curses and hexes,” Hubble said.

 

“Predicting movement of the stars and planets,” Sinistra nodded

 

“Let’s not forget establishing the exactly right spots for various plants of different needs, even building greenhouses,” Sprout said thoughtfully.

 

“Now you’re shitting me,” De Luna groaned.

 

“Are we?” Severus looked around the room.

 

“You know that Muggles call quite large portion of Arithmancy mathematics, don’t you?” Kettleburn asked. “Queen of all science from what I heard.”

 

“It is,” Severus, Babbling and Vector said in almost perfect unison.

 

“Okay, okay, okay,” De Luna grumbled. “I get it, the girls don’t want to have lessons at the same time. Now that’s settled, let’s move on.”

 

So, they did and not because De Luna said so.

 

Between themselves McGonagall, Babbling and Vector worked out a plan for elective subjects that would allow Babbling to take over Arithmancy classes once Vector wouldn’t be able to teach them. Ancient Studies suffered slightly in scheduling but seeing as it was elective for advanced students who weren’t taking Astronomy at the same time the lessons were scheduled to take place at the same time.

 

Severus's schedule didn’t change much. It was nearly the same schedule he had in the fall, with minor adjustments between his sixth and seventh years whose lessons were switched around to allow Arithmancy attending seventh years to attend that classes on new schedule. Aside of that it was the same old Potions/Herbology split with dangerous mix of Slytherin/Gryffindor and far less dangerous Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw mix.

 

He was planning to change that next year, along with applying higher standards to his advanced students. This year he was forced to accept Slughorn’s standards which due to sheer brewing ineptitude of Slughorn's OWL level students were lowered from Slughorn’s Exceed Expectations to Acceptable. It was a truly disastrous class that consisted from dunderheads who in so far hadn’t showed improvement in their brewing. One of the first things he managed to wrangle out of Dumbledore as a teacher was a promise that if that particular class would fail to raise their grades to at the minimum Exceed Expectations by the end of their sixth year, he wasn’t going to let them into seventh year Potions. House colours or Boards of Governors be damned, he wasn’t going to waste his time by attempting to teach people who didn’t want to be taught.

 

Next year no one with a grade other than Outstanding would make into his advanced class and he was going to defend that point until he was blue in the face. If no one did then he would have simply more time to himself and his brewing. He will also demand Slytherin/Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff/Gryffindor split.

 

The meeting concluded with a dinner and the staff slowly trickled out of the room until the only one left were Severus and Dumbledore.

 

“I wish to see the copy of Graham’s records,” Severus said.

 

Dumbledore sighed heavily, “There’s nothing you can do, Severus.”

 

“Try me,” Severus insisted.

 

“No,” Dumbledore shook his head. “There’s really nothing you can do. The damage is too severe.”

 

“I insist,” Severus said firmly. “Maybe I can find...”

 

“What trained healers had missed?” Dumbledore asked calmly. “No, Severus. Someone, many years ago, had told me once that every lie we say is actually two lies, the lie we tell the others and the lie we tell ourselves to justify it.”

 

“So, he is dead,” Severus whispered. “Why else would you lie?”

 

“To spare kind, helpful soul the pain of witnessing the painful passing of her mentor,” Dumbledore whispered. “It was one of Graham's last wishes.”

 

“He was paralysed,” Severus pointed out.

 

“You know very well that there are...” Dumbledore paused, “other means of communication. He isn’t dead yet but he’s as good as. His family had a history of heart problems, of medical rather than emotional nature. He was always convinced that his heart will eventually kill him and many years ago he had a living will made. It’s there, signed by his own hand...” he sighed. “Last night he was given a concoction of sleeping draughts, not Draught of the Living Death, but the ones that allow his organs to still work.”

 

“Until they will stop and multi-organ failure will kill him,” Severus whispered.

 

“I can’t go against his wishes, Severus, I’m sorry,” Dumbledore said softly. “That’s the way he chose to go. There’s nothing...”

 

The ending was probably ‘you can do’ but Severus was already out of the room when Dumbledore finished his statement. These words, full of false comfort, false hope, burning down his stomach. Why they bothered with pretending that Graham might be fine when they knew he wasn’t going to be? When it was evident that at the most, he had maybe a month in potions induced coma before his body would give up and he will die for real. Why they were worried that Babbling, because the lie had been told in front of her and for her benefit, might be unable to handle the truth?

 

He practically flew down the stairs that led down to the entrance room which led outside to the stone bridge and was turning right to get down to the dungeons and comfort of his quarters where he could stew in peace when his right arm collided with something solid and before he realised what was happening he was pressed face first into the wall supporting the stairs with his right arm twisted uncomfortably behind his back.

 

“What the...” he sputtered.

 

The hold on his arm tightened and the tip of someone’s wand was pressed against his skull.

 

“Let’s make one thing abundantly clear,” his attacker said, softly but with such firmness that against all his instincts screaming at him to try and defend himself Severus remained still.

 

“I’m listening,” he said as calmly as one could when at a wand-point.

 

“I don’t care where your loyalties lie, Snape. I don’t give a damn if it’s with Dumbledore or the Dark Lord. For all that I care you might be a faithful servant of Giant Squid and they’re both in for a giant surprise,” his attacker hissed. “What I care about is my family. If you will ever bring them up again, in any manner or circumstances I’ll end you. I will kill you and I will make you beg for it. You might be a Master of Defence Against Dark Arts but like you said I was raised in an ancient tomb and they can be quite deadly for conceited ignorants...” Babbling whispered, because it had to be her but how she managed to sneak up on him.

 

“You’ve been spared,” he mumbled and just as he finished speaking the hold on his arm disappeared but before he had a chance to do anything he was forcibly turned around.

 

He spared brief glance at the tip of the wand wondering whatever or not he should make a run for the dungeons where he would be on his turf but the second glance, this time at her face, stopped him from entertaining the idea of an escape. She was standing still, back ramrod straight, shoulders squared, head held high. Her eyes, earlier devoid of any sign of emotion were shinning with barely contained fury and her mouth, slightly open, was curled in a sneer. In the state she was in it was very likely that if he tried to run, he would be at the very least severely cursed before he would be able to reach the entrance to the dungeons.

 

“Explain,” she spat lividly.

 

“By Dumbledore, earlier,” Severus said quickly and his statement was met with a slight frown. “I don’t know what they told you about Graham's state but you have been lied to. He’s in a coma in which his body is going to deteriorate and he will eventually die. Probably within a month.”

 

A long moment of silence had passed before the sneer on her face disappeared, her eyes stopped shinning and the expressionless mask slipped back on her face. She was occluding, not as well as he would be considering how much time it took her to pull herself together.

 

“I know,” she said finally.

 

“How?” flew out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

 

“That’s what you care about?” she snorted. “I...” she shrugged and paused for a moment before she continued. “It’s body language, something I’m presuming a spy you’re supposed to be knows. One of the signs of lying is maintaining constant eye contact. Especially by someone who’s trying to control the conversation and convince you to do something. I always double-check the information if I suspect that someone is lying to me and I’m not easily swayed.”

 

“Good to know,” he whispered. “For the record so am I.”

 

She raised both eyebrows at him.

 

“So, here’s what’s going to happen,” he continued. “I won’t get in your way; you won’t get into mine and we will happily coexist in mutual suspension of hostilities to make our esteemed headmaster happy. Deal?” he asked.

 

But before she had a chance to answer somewhere above them footsteps were heard followed quickly by a clank of a bottle being dropped. Then it rolled through the floor and down the stairs, clanking some more on each stair until it landed at the bottom of the stairs.

 

“Oh, for the love of Merlin,” a female voice grumbled and Severus groaned inwardly.

 

Trelawney. Even Dumbledore would have been better at the moment. He would just look at them with disappointment before he would try to lead away either of them to avoid possible bloodshed.

 

But if Trelawney would find them, locked in this moment when they had yet to agree to ignore each other, when the air was still brimming with barely contained energy, then all bets were off. For all of her avoidance of mingling with unbelieving and her inability to tell who liked or disliked her she occasionally came down from her tower to an odd staff meeting and usually stayed long enough to gossip with Sinistra when the latter was in an indulging mood. And while the prophecy foretelling the fall of the Dark Lord had become true Trelawney’s mind had an uncanny ability of twisting and turning signs into distorted versions of themselves.

 

All she needed was to take one good look at him and Babbling and within twenty-four hours the story of their torrid love affair would be all over the teaching staff and within forty-eight all over the entire school. Severus would be able to bear it because no one would dare to ask him about it but it was hard to gauge how Babbling would react… and what she would do to him.

 

By the time that chain of events went through his head Trelawney was already walking down the stairs and Babbling, probably reaching similar conclusion, shifted so she was standing next to Severus, with her wand still pointed at him.

 

“Emperor reversed. Empress reversed,” Trelawney mumbled. “Lovers reversed,” she paused and stopped for a moment before she continued counting and walking down the stairs, “Hermit reversed. Hierophant reversed. Four of cups.  Four of swords. Four of pentacles. King of cups reversed. Oh dear.”

 

She stopped to pick her bottle and then she continued through the entrance hall and the door outside. Only once the door closed behind her Severus dared to release the breath he didn’t realise was holding.

 

“What in the name Merlin was that?” Babbling muttered.

 

Severus turned his head to look at her, noting with small relief that she no longer was pointing her wand at him. Babbling’s eyes however remained fixed at the door. Trelawney in her jingling, swishy and mystical glory did that to people.

 

“That,” Severus said as he waved his left hand at the door, “was our esteemed Professor of Divination Sybill Trelawney.”

 

“Trelawney,” Babbling spat. “And whose brilliant idea was to hire that sack of misery, ash, sticks, stones and broken bones?” she asked sceptically.

 

“Whose idea was to hire you?” he asked simply as he slowly started walking away in the direction of the dungeons. “Let’s take it out of the open before someone else comes by.”

 

“Graham’s,” Babbling answered somewhere behind his back. “I was supposed to be his apprentice through the rest of the school year and replace him in September.”

 

“Dumbledore hired her,” Severus shrugged. “Apparently she has a sight.”

 

“Yes, a very short sight,” Babbling snorted. “And the glasses she’s wearing are made from the same glass as Mirror of Despair.”

 

He let her into his classroom and closed the door behind her before he leaned against the table and asked curiously, “Wasn’t she supposed to be in Ravenclaw? Where’s your house loyalty?”

 

“Yes, she was and where it always has been,” Babbling muttered as crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the door. “She was two years ahead of me and I can tell you that entire Ravenclaw cheered when her year finally graduated, Flitwick probably did too.”

 

“She couldn’t be that bad,” Severus prodded.

 

“Bad doesn’t cover that,” Babbling muttered. “In fact, it’s not even the tip of the bloody iceberg of terror she had been for five years I knew her,” she said with a huff. “And for a Ravenclaw she was so stupidly oblivious to the effect she had on people. Couldn’t get a clue during clue mating season in a field of horny clues smeared in clue musk and doing clue mating dance like someone once said. But that wasn’t the worst.”

 

“What was?” he asked.

 

“Her obstinacy in her conviction that she was going to become a great and revered seer,” Babbling sighed. “Add to that subsequent desire to share her predictions with the commoners and top it with lack of empathy and tact of a bull in a china shop.”

 

“Aren’t you a bit prejudiced?” he asked pointedly.

 

“Prejudiced?” she snorted. “Please. That cow, for the lack of the better word, spouted left and right her visions of doom, gloom and terror. Murder, death, severe and lesser injuries of permanent and temporary variety. Rape, gore, destruction,” she uncrossed her arms and waved them with such speed and ferocity that her right hand collided with a small parcel that was lying on the top of the shelf. “What was...” she started.

 

“Confiscated contraband that I didn’t have a chance to examine before I was otherwise occupied,” he interrupted her. “Probably nothing dangerous considering that it came from Mordecai Smith. Don’t banish it,” he added quickly when he saw her reaching for her wand. “Mr Smith will be meeting me for a detention on Monday and I need to determine the contents of it so I can estimate the severity and duration. Please continue.”

 

She raised her left eyebrow at him but she continued, “Death of family members. Natural catastrophes. Break ups. Minor lover spats. Failed exams. The darker the better and she had this way of passing her predictions as throw away comments.”

 

“That’s extremely fatalistic and annoying but hardly dangerous,” Severus pointed out.

 

“To someone who developed at least mild tolerance for her and learned to ignore her, yes,” Babbling shook her head and paused. “Had she stuck to spurting nonsense in her own corner she would have been a harmless oddball. And Ravenclaw gets a lion share of them, people who tend to think outside the box, people who miss or ignore the box altogether. It happens and people get used to it.”

 

“But Trelawney?” he asked.

 

“Sybill,” she spat the name sourly, “had a particular talent for picking vulnerable targets. Homesick first years, Muggleborns, people with difficult situation at home, orphans or idiots who believed in divination. She latched on them, followed them, spurting nonsense and scenarios of doom, gloom and terror,” she started slowly approaching him. “Flitwick tried to rein her in but you know Flitwick, he’s kind, too kind at times and she was his responsibility too, he tried to convince her to behave but his words were falling on deaf ears.”

 

“He tends to remain neutral in non-academic conflicts,” he nodded as she stopped about a foot away from him, so close that he could smell her perfume, heavy, cloying mix of roses, lilies and cinnamon.

 

“I don’t know if it reached Slytherin,” she said slowly. “It was in my fourth year, I wasn’t a prefect and I had my own share of problems at the time, stuff that kept me from keeping close tabs on her but here is what I do know,” she paused and licked her lips. “At the beginning of that school year she fixated herself on a first year Muggleborn. Her name was Emma Lawrence and she had a very difficult situation at home, her parents were going through a very ugly divorce, one of them was abusing drugs or alcohol and both were abusing each other. Shortly before entering Hogwarts she was sent to live with the only family she had left, her paternal grandfather, who was...” she paused again and took a deep breath. “From what I managed to gather much later on he sexually abused her, I don’t know if it was a singular incident or if the abuse went on for a long time. That doesn’t matter.”

 

“What does?” he asked, taking a breath and another whiff of her perfume.

 

“What matters is that sometime in early October her father bludgeoned her mother to death with his bare hands and he got caught. What matters is that he ended in jail. What matters is that the system is rigged against Muggleborns, had been back then and is still now. What matters was the fact that our authorities were waiting for Muggle justice system to work its way and settle Emma’s status in Muggle world. What matters is that a very helpful Sybill Trelawney got herself involved with Emma at the time and she pointed out the obvious to that poor girl, without as much as providing her with alternatives and no one got to her in time,” she said fiercely.

 

“What happened to her?” Severus asked softly.

 

Babbling closed her eyes, opened them again and that was when he saw her dilated pupils.

 

“It was 1st November 1974,” she said slowly. “Friday after Halloween but before Hogsmeade weekend,” she paused. “People were distracted by that and the prefects missed first headcount,” she paused again and licked her lips. “She was found missing by the second one. At midnight...”

 

He raised his eyebrows and breathed in again, trying to not hurry her, too much.

 

“She was found at the bottom of Astronomy tower,” she whispered. “Dead,” she added softly. “It was hushed up. Initially we have been told that she was pulled out of the school but it wasn’t adding up and first years talk among themselves...”

 

“And you think Trelawney is responsible?” he asked softly, the scent of her perfume was making it difficult to breath and his skin started tingling.

 

“Not entirely blameless,” she said as she stepped closer to him and looked him dead in the eye. “You accepted the position of the Head of Slytherin. You’re responsible for a quarter or close to a quarter of school population. You need to watch out for them. Don’t let her fixate herself on another vulnerable target.”

 

She was breathing heavily as if she ran a mile rather than taking a simple not even full step and she was standing so close that he was practically drowning in that cloying, heavy scent of roses, lilies and cinnamon.

 

“Promise me,” she whispered.

 

He nodded slowly feeling something stir within, something that shouldn’t have place there, locked in a room with a woman who no less than half of hour ago threatened to kill him.

 

“Promise me,” she repeated breathlessly.

 

“I promise,” he whispered.

 

The very moment these words left his mouth she grabbed him by the lapels of his cloak and yanked him forward. It was then when their lips met, hers soft and moist against his slightly chapped ones. His hand flew to grip her arms as he tried to pull away but she was surprisingly strong for someone so lithe. Nevertheless, he was stronger and he managed to pull away with a little more effort.

 

“What the...” he sputtered, unconsciously licking his lips, tasting honey on them and he glared at her.

 

Her eyes were wide open, mouth agape. She appeared horrified.

 

“What’s wrong with you?” he hissed angrily as his body contrary to his words reacted with a jolt of arousal.

 

“What I broke?” she whispered timidly.

 

What? But his mind was already catching up, ignoring arousal and adding. Scent of roses, lilies, cinnamon, taste of honey and sudden raise of temperature in a room that wasn’t designed to keep warmth. Liquid Lust, a highly potent and equally highly illegal lust potion used by criminals running prostitution rings, very easily transmitted.

 

“Liquid Lust,” he whispered.

 

She groaned and hung her head before she whispered, “Is there a counter?”

 

“To one of the most illegal lust potions known to our kind?” he asked. “Sadly, no, which is why it’s used by criminals running prostitution rings. On the top of that it’s very potent, enough for a 10 ml vial to start an orgy in a decently sized ballroom,” he added stiffly, trying hard and failing to will away his raising erection.

 

“I’m going to kill Mordecai Smith,” she mumbled.

 

“Not if I will get there first,” he muttered. “And then I will get his carcass expelled.”

 

“Why didn’t you...” she started.

 

“Checked it first?” he asked. “I was planning to do so during the break but I got rudely interrupted.”

 

“Only you would call an arrest and imprisonment in Azkaban a rude interruption,” she snorted as she looked up.

 

“It was,” he said simply. “I’m three weeks behind with brewing, I have storages to restock, provisioner to terrorize and lessons to prepare.”

 

“Can we try and fight it?” she asked quietly.

 

He shook his head before he said, “You’ve been under its influence for about five minutes and probably fighting it the entire time. The potion is designed to enhance stamina, heighten pleasure and ensure perfect sexual compliance. The harder one tries to fight it the more potent it gets and befouls one’s mind until all that’s left is...”

 

“Liquid Rape,” she whispered.

 

“Essentially,” he nodded as he gripped her arms tighter, trying to ignore his erection. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I should let you banish it right away. I should examine it right away...”

 

“Stop,” she moaned and she hung her head again. “Just don’t.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated forlornly.

 

He meant it, from the bottom of his heart. It wasn’t fair, for both of them but a lot of things in his life from the very early age wasn’t and as much as he tried to rebel against that thought and fight it with everything he head there was a teeny, tiny part deep inside him that accepted that his life was always going to be full of struggles. This was no different, finding himself again in a spot from which he walked away long before he walked away from the Dark Lord.

 

When he was offered the Dark Mark, he accepted eagerly. Seventeen at the time, after spending a year at trying and failing to reconcile his friendship with Lily, brimming with anger, resentment and misery he followed those who showed him, his knowledge and abilities the tinniest sign of respect. He knew at the time that he will have to work hard to win more. So, he did, he threw himself further into the Dark Arts, into potions research, into spell-crafting and the Dark Lord was pleased with him. His Death Eater peers, less so. So, in order to propel his status amongst them with them he went. He witnessed and participated in raids, ambushes. He stood guard when his fellow Death Eaters violated girls and women, Muggle or magical. He had no desire to participate in those acts himself but he did nothing to prevent or discourage them.

 

It didn’t sit well with some of them, particularly Avery, Mulciber and Lestrange brothers who enjoyed the pain and mortification the act of rape brought just as much as they enjoyed killing some of their victims afterwards. It didn’t take them a lot of time or effort to figure out how to convince Severus to truly participate in them. All it took was just enough of alcohol and just enough jabs at his apparent lack of courage to start wearing him down until he gave up and promised that next time he will participate.

 

And he had. His first victim was a _gift_ from Avery and Rabastan, captured in a small village in Cornwall to which he was told to apparate. A young woman whose face was covered with a pillowcase, to keep her from discouraging him they said, gagged and bound, to make it easier for him they said. He was the only one who violated her, as a gift for him and she was left alive afterwards, as a gift for her. He didn’t see her face and the darkness of the room prevented him from seeing more than her curly dark hair or the small cluster of moles under her right shoulder-blade that looked a bit like a Fibonacci spiral. It was the only thing he remembered from that night, her hair, the moles and the scent of magnolia which until this very day made him gag.

 

His next victim was an Irish lass, blond-haired, blue-eyed and resigned to her fate (because he was the last one of four of her rapists). She was also killed afterwards by an eager Avery and disposed somewhere far away from her village by Rabastan.

 

The third and last one was another Irish lass, Muggle, left alive for enjoyment after the rest of her family was killed. Once again, he was the last one to violate her and had been told to dispose her afterwards when the rest hurried away to the Dark Lord’s summons. Left alone with her, hers tear-soaked face, wet green eyes in completely wrong shade of green and red hair in a completely wrong shade of red fanned around her he couldn’t bring himself to finish. He just couldn’t. If he had, if he finished, it would mean that he would be capable of doing this to Lily even though the girl looked nothing like her. And he wanted Lily but he wanted her to want him on her own, not under influence or under a threat. So, he stopped halfway through the act and after walking away from the room he disapparated, later he told the others, hoping that the girl had good sense to run away from that house, that he killed her.

 

Afterwards he still occasionally stood guard finding it more and more revolting every single time but never again he personally participated in the act itself. Then the Dark Lord demanded of him to spend more of his time at his research, an excuse he readily welcomed.

 

And there he was again. About to engage in an act of sex, non-consensual from his side just as much as from hers even though the potion was going to make it so. The potion master within him knew that there was no fighting the effects, he could try but he would fail, the harder he would try the more spectacular his failure would be.

 

But the man within still rebelled. He didn’t want it, damn it, he didn’t want her, just as much as she didn’t want him. It was clear from her posture, lowered head and slumped shoulders that she didn’t want it.

 

“Not here,” she whispered.

 

“Not here,” he agreed.

 

Stamina enchanting effects of the potion would keep them awake for hours. If the batch was a lousy one it would last for about four hours. But if it was a better one it might take about eight hours before the effects of the potion will wear off. But if they were supremely screwed and the batch was of an excellent quality it would wear after twelve hours. Knowing his luck, the batch would be an excellent one. A classroom full of hard surfaces, breakable and sharp objects was the last place where anyone should have sex once let alone several times.

 

Feeling his self-control draining with each second, he willed his right hand to leave her arm while he lowered his left hand to hold hers. Quickly, already walking towards the door he conjured a glass container around the infernal parcel before he led them out of the classroom having enough presence of mind left to cast locking charms on the door to the classroom. It wasn’t his best work but at the very least it was some degree of protection for any idiot who would dare to walk inside.

 

Luckily the walk to his quarters was brief and they didn’t encounter anyone during it but it was only after the door to his sitting-room closed and was warded behind them he dared to sigh in relief. With practically last shrews of self-control he disconnected the Floo before he pulled Babbling into his arms and kissed her hard.

 

Her arms flew around his neck and her left hand fisted into his hair as she kissed him back. There was no gentleness in that kiss. Their teeth scrapped against each other, she practically bit through his lower lip and once he opened his mouth, she pushed her tongue in. It was breathless and clumsy as fuck but at the same time it was exhilarating. His skin tingled, his cock throbbed and the tongue in his mouth was seriously cutting into his oxygen supply. But only after he felt the room around him start to tilt slightly, he dared to pull his mouth away from hers.

 

The compliance with the potions demand cleared his head just enough to take a good look at her, her moist lips, rosy cheeks and… tears shinning in her eyes. The potion made her compliant enough to take the control over their kiss but there was still a teeny, tiny part deep inside that was trying to resist and she knew that she was failing, that her own body was betraying her.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

 

“Please stop saying that,” she said quietly. “I’ll be willing. Total sexual compliance, remember?”

 

“I do,” he nodded. “But that doesn’t mean that I want to be the man that takes his own pleasure with no consideration for his lover,” he added quickly.

 

“We aren’t lovers,” she shook her head.

 

“For tonight we have to be,” he said quietly. “The potion will make sure of that. We can keep trying to fight it and there’s no telling what its befouling properties will make us do. How far it would make us go to make sure that we comply, what kind of things it will make us do.”

 

“You don’t want this,” she whispered.

 

“Just as much as you,” he confirmed. “Maybe even more,” he added with a sigh. “I don’t wish to find out what sort of deepest desires it will drudge up. What it will bring to the surface. What I will do to you without the shrews of control that actual compliance with the effects of the potion provides. It won’t stop us from having sex but it can make it...”

 

“Non-consensually consensual?” she asked.

 

“If it works for you,” he sighed.

 

“I want it to be ugly,” she said quickly. “And I’m terrified that it will be,” she added after a brief pause.

 

“You’re a virgin?” he asked as gently as he could.

 

She didn’t answer, just shrugged her shoulders, hung her head and sighed heavily.

 

“Bad experience?” he sighed.

 

“You can say that,” she mumbled. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she shook her head again.

 

“Then what do you want?” he asked.

 

“Being wined and dined properly before would be nice,” she sighed. “By someone I actually want.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

 

“But I’m not going to have that, will I?” she asked with a mirthless laugh. “So, please,” she paused and added timidly “be gentle with me.”

 

“I will. I promise,” he said softly.

 

It took enormous self-control for him to take a step back, letting his hands slide over her hips, letting go of her in order to take few steps back more in the direction of the couch in front of the fireplace.

 

He sat down on the edge of the couch, barely missing falling down on his arse on the floor right in front of it. Her pleasure is my pleasure, he told himself firmly when he felt his hands flex, wanting to grab her, to pull her closer, to show her that he meant what he said.

 

She took a tentative step in his direction, then another and then she stopped as she reached for her wand but rather than point it at him, like a part of him worried she still could do, she pointed it at her lower regions and a whiff of magic tore through the air.

 

Ever the Ravenclaw, he thought, and braver than a tower full of Gryffindors.

 

She holstered her wand and took another step in his direction very slowly reaching out with her left hand. He caught it gently with his right and brought it to his lips, watching her face carefully the entire time.

 

She didn’t look thrilled and her eyes were still bright but at least she didn’t look like she was going to burst in tears. No, she appeared unsure and cautious but no longer terrified.

 

Her pleasure is my pleasure. He turned her hand palm up and pressed a kiss to its centre before he took a tentative lick. Her hand tasted and smelt of lemons.

 

“Old housewives remedies,” he said, taking another whiff. “No glycerine,” he added when he looked up at her.

 

“Old habit,” she said softly. “Winter child born in Bethlehem to a pure-blood,” she added after a brief pause.

 

“On Christmas Day?” he asked curiously.

 

“You wish,” she snorted. “Few days later though,” she added more softly. “I have very lousy blood circulation in them and they irritate easily.”

 

“Glycerine could help,” he observed.

 

“Only makes my skin itch,” she answered.

 

“Oils then?” he suggested.

 

“Take a lot of time to dry and even then, they leave spots of fat,” she replied. “Not a good idea for someone who spends a lot of time handling delicate books.”

 

“Ravenclaw always has an answer to everything,” he sighed.

 

“We tend to do that,” she admitted. “Wasn’t it you who called me an insufferable know-it-all? Repeatedly I might add.”

 

“Only when you tried to monopolize lessons,” he shrugged. “That means often.”

 

“You know what they say about talking kitchen pots?” she asked.

 

“That they were invented by an idiot?” he offered.

 

“Not that, you hypocritical shit,” she snorted before she took another step in his direction and sat next to him.

 

“Careful, one could thing that you were raised by wolves,” he teased as he lowered her hand and placed it on his right tight.

 

“No, I was raised as you eloquently put it in an ancient tomb,” she retorted. “And I was a curious little snot. There’s a reason why curse-breakers are called curse-breakers, a seasoned curse-breaker can put any marine to a shame.”

 

“Clearly you never heard a steel mill worker,” he muttered.

 

“I did and I’ll still maintain that curse-breakers have more varied range of curses and insults,” she shrugged. “Plus, majority of them can swear in more than one language unlike mill workers. But I will give you that some of mill workers can be very creative with their insults.”

 

The pause that fell after that was long and started feeling awkward so to distract himself and also her too, he ran his fingers over her left hand, kneading it gently. He was painfully hard and his skin itched for more contact but he wasn’t going to push her harder. No, her pleasure was going to his pleasure and for as long as he could stand it, he was going to wait for her to relax.

 

He raised her hand to his lips again, not stopping the gentle kneading of her fingers. He kissed the top of her palm before his lips slipped lower peppering her fingers with soft kisses and small nips but it was only after he slipped the tip of her forefinger into his mouth and he sucked gently when he heard her gasp.

 

That startled gasp went straight into his groin and he looked at her face. Her mouth was hanging slightly open, her eyes were open wide and in the dimly lit room appeared darker than they really were. He watched how she ran her tongue over her lips, unconsciously shifting and leaning closer as he continued gentle suction of her digit.

 

Merlin, so beautiful, went through his head and that thought was immediately followed by another, potion, it was just the potion. Deep inside she still didn’t want him just like he didn’t want her but they had no choice but follow through.

 

He lowered her hand, allowing her finger to slip from his mouth, placing small kiss on it when it slipped from his mouth.

 

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered, trying to ignore the fuzziness on the edge of his mind and the urge to stop asking and just do it.

 

Her pleasure is my pleasure.

 

A heartbeat had passed, and then another, and another, and another but finally she nodded slowly and shifted even closer so their knees were touching. Slowly, to not startle her, he leaned in, tilting his head to the right and placing his right hand on the couch for leverage.

 

Their third kiss was much like the first, gentle press of lips against lips, with light scraping of teeth against her warm, moist lips. But soon enough it grew more heated with gentle coaxing of his tongue. The scent of roses, lilies and cinnamon heavy in the air urging him to be bolder, to take pleasure just as much as give it.

 

She too, probably urged by the potion, grew bolder and soon enough rather than kissing like a pair of shy fourth years on a first date they were full on snogging with her left hand fisted in his hair, his own running over her tights. It wasn’t the most comfortable position and too much distance separated them, just as well as too much clothing.

 

Still kissing her he moved his hands upwards and started fiddling with the clasp of the belt of her hers cloak. It was a wide, black, leather thing, too wide and too plain for a female belt but with enough fiddling it gave way and soon enough he divested her from her outer cloak. Underneath he found a woollen tunic, black like the cloak and the belt.

 

His progress with removing barriers between them was halted by her own. Unable to get him out of his outer cloak she busied herself with undoing the buttons of his jacket, removing the cravat. Her progress wasn’t as advanced as his and it seemed far more frustrating.

 

“Do you have a button fetish or something?” she huffed when he pulled back for a breath.

 

“No,” he smirked and he pressed a small kiss against her mouth. “However,” he added, “I’m extremely frugal when it comes to clothing and while I prefer quality over quantity, I know a bargain when I see one.”

 

“And let me guess you have three more of this?” she asked pointedly.

 

“Ten,” he mumbled sheepishly. “It was a very good bargain.”

 

“The shop was closing down for good?” she asked tilting her head to the right.

 

“How did you...” he started, trying to glare but judging by the smirk on her face he was falling quite miserably.

 

“Takes one to know one,” she shrugged.

 

“You’re a pure-blood,” he pointed out. “From a wealthy family.”

 

“Half-blood,” she sighed. “And I grew in wealth,” she paused before she added, “but certain decisions that were made without my knowledge or consent had led…” she paused again.

 

“To you needing to fend for yourself upon entering adulthood,” he finished for her. “While studying for two masteries.”

 

“Yeah,” she grimaced and sighed before she asked, “Can we not talk about it?”

 

“You started it,” he pointed out.

 

“I was merely expressing my annoyance with your outwear,” she snorted. “Do you seriously button everything by hand?”

 

“I find it meditative,” he smirked making her roll her eyes at him. “Also, I’m a wizard.”

 

“So am I,” she retorted.

 

He looked at her pointedly, first at her face, then at her breast, not too big or too small but evidently there, then at her lap and then he smirked again.

 

“You arse,” she snorted. “You know what I mean.”

 

“Oh, I do,” he chuckled. “I’m sure that it would have been an enlightening experience in some way but I’m quite convinced that my preferences lie with females,” he added cheekily.

 

“You won’t know unless you try,” she retorted.

 

“And you did?” he asked curiously.

 

“I got myself manoeuvred into a dare with Grace Meredith,” she shrugged.

 

“The same one who got caught snogging Peter ‘How the Hell He Got in Here’ Pettigrew during Slughorn’s Halloween party in our sixth year?” he asked pensively, trying to recall the circumstances.

 

“And who do you think came up with that idea?” she smirked. “Believe me, I got off easily and that cunt needed to be put in place for good.”

 

“I thought that it was one of Potter’s or Black’s dares,” he admitted.

 

“It was,” she admitted. “Black’s, tempered suggestion,” she sighed heavily. “Although he had a different target in mind but it cheered him up nevertheless.”

 

“And since when did you care about Black?” he glared, trying to squash sudden burst of anger in his chest.

 

“I cared about my friend,” she said softly. “And that black cloud of doom and gloom started following her right after his public divorce with the Marauders at the beginning of our sixth year. I didn’t want her to get caught in the middle, she had enough on her plate already without him trailing after her like a shadow.”

 

“Did it help?” he asked cautiously.

 

“No,” she spat angrily. “It didn’t help at all,” she added heavily but didn’t elaborate further.

 

Instead she stood up, walked over to him so she was standing right in front of him and held up her hand to him. He pushed himself from the couch, stood up, grasping her hand halfway through and placed a small kiss on her lips, that which as it went by turned into a heated one. By the time the kiss ended his outer cloak was down on the floor and his jacket was about to fall down too.

 

Once it did hit the floor, he pulled her tunic over her head, somehow, against his efforts to not do that, upsetting the braided crown and making her hair spill out from the braid. Underneath the tunic she was wearing a fitted, black button-up blouse which he started unbuttoning when she managed to divest him from his vest.

 

Realising that in a matter of minute at the most things were going to get even more heated he abandoned her blouse and still kissing her he led her, walking backwards towards his bedroom. Only once the door to his bedroom had closed behind them and his knees hit the edge of the mattress, he returned to previously abandoned task of disrobing her. At the very least he tried to, with her hands in the way, busy with removing his own shirt.

 

“Too many layers,” she mumbled against his lips when she found an under-shirt underneath.

 

“I live in a bloody dungeon, in a bloody castle, in the middle of nowhere in Scotland,” he replied as he reached for the belt of her trousers, both black, he barely managed to unclasp it when he had to pull away because she was pulling off his under-shirt.

 

Once free of any upper layers he took his sweet, uninterrupted time because her hands wound up in his hair again, with unbuttoning her shirt, fingers sliding over exposed skin, warm in touch. Then further and higher up her back to the clasp of her modest grey bra. With a little fumbling he managed to unclasp it before he allowed his hands to slid lower, down her back to her, still clothed, arse and he squeezed her buttocks firmly.

 

That move earned him a startled yelp which went straight to his cock and drowned his senses with desire to hear more of it, to feel more of her. So, he pushed her trousers down as far as he could without removing his mouth from hers before he allowed himself to come back to divesting her from that god-damn blouse. Once again, she didn’t make it easy for him, too busy with undoing his trousers and pushing them down to let him take it off but once his trousers slid below his knees, she allowed him to finally slide it down her shoulders, then arms and then down on the floor.

 

Her bra fell down next revealing a pair of breasts in a perfectly handful size and he couldn’t resist running his fingers over them, gently from the top, then lower rubbing her nipples and then up again. She gasped deliciously in response and placed her hands on his chest, mirroring every move of his own hands.

 

New wave of arousal surged through him. It was so good. He never expected that his own nipples would be so sensitive, he knew that female nipples were supposed to be sensitive but male ones… He didn’t expect it, the fire in his abdomen and this urge to take, to take and give back, to show this quirky, complicated woman, that he deserved to be her lover.

 

Potion, he reminded himself, it was the potion talking, urging him on, pushing him just as much as it was pushing her. Real Bathsheda Babbling didn’t want him just as much as he didn’t want her. They will only have tonight and they will never speak of it again.

 

The best thing he could do is make it worthwhile, for both of them. But first he needed to get her out of her god-damned trousers and boots.

 

“Do you have a belt fetish or something?” he asked between kisses.

 

“No,” she answered and placed a kiss on his chin. “However, I obtained a pair of Auror boots,” another, this time under his chin, “winter boots,” another kiss, to right side of his neck, quickly followed by another. “Very warm,” another kiss, a little lower than the last one. “With a series of pretty nifty enchantments and hiding spots,” a lick to his Adam’s apple. “Like a secondary wand holster or a knife holster,” a nip this time.

 

“Anything else?” he murmured.

 

“A firework,” she continued, moving her lips to nuzzle left side of his neck. “A revolver.”

 

“In there?” he pulled away and looked down at her boots, they were tall and very fitting. “How did you managed to hide a revolver in there and what you need it for?” he asked.

 

“I told you that they’re enchanted and the revolver came with the boots. Never used it though,” she answered simply. “Knives though...”

 

“No knife play,” he interrupted her as he turned her around and gently pushed on the bed as he stepped out of his trousers.

 

Immediately he knelt, pulling her trousers further down to her knees before he moved his hands to her left boot with the intention to remove it. He barely managed to touch the top clasp when he was hit with a spark and immediately pulled his hands away from it.

 

“That would be one of the enchantments,” she snickered.

 

“Bloody inconvenient,” he muttered.

 

“Bloody useful,” she replied cheerfully. “Now watch,” she bent over a little and waved both her hands in front of the clasps which opened immediately.

 

“Handy,” he admitted before he took advantage of their position and kissed her hard.

 

Her hands wound up in his hair again but as much as he wanted to reciprocate and bury his hands in her hair, he really needed to get her out of her boots. It took few more tugs but finally he had her sprawled on his bed in nothing but a pair of modest, grey knickers.

 

She was a sight to behold with her long, curly, dark hair fanned out all around her, slight blush colouring her cheeks, pert breasts and long legs.

 

And he was going to have sex with her, dear Merlin. Potion, he reminded himself, if it wasn’t for the potion at best, he might find her aesthetically pleasing but for his ideal she was too tall, too thin, too dark in complexion, hair and eye-colour. Yet she was so beautiful. Any man who would find this wonderfully complicated woman in his bed should consider himself lucky.

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note (an important one):   
> This story or more precisely vignette takes place chronologically long before “Secrets & Keepers – Keep Us” even though at a certain point it was written simultaneously with the first three chapters of it. I started writing it when I was still optimistic that the meeting between Sirius and Severus would occur in fourth or fifth chapter (and anyone who read “Keep Us” knows how that ended). In fact, at this point, I’m in chapter seven and while that meeting is getting closer I’m still at least two chapters, three at the most away from it. But even back then I knew that those two idiots needed a buffer and I knew who that buffer would be.
> 
> So in order to gauge on what kind of ground I was standing on I started to tentatively plan the backstory that was both convincing and in character with the participants. My original idea was cover in this prequel attempt everything one needs to know about the backstory of Severus and Bathsheda and how their relationship fits in everything that happened between the moment you see Severus here and then again in “Keep Us”. I intended to take you all through the missing years, through missing stories that might or might not make its way into “Keep Us”. But I soon learned that if I would go with the original plan finishing this story and “Keep Us” would take me at the minimum five years. I fully intended to finish this story towards the end of Harry’s second year.
> 
> At this point, I know that the way I intended to end it I will never manage so (not while working full time and working full time on “Keep Us” when I’m not doing that). So all this story was doing through the last year was just laying in the folder when I keep Secrets and Keepers and taunting me.
> 
> And then there’s the poem that started it all. From the very first moment I found it I loved it and it screamed to me ‘Severus and Bathsheda’. It’s them at this point of their lives when everything is dark and hopeless when their lives have no purpose and they’re drowning in grief and anger.
> 
> This story is the beginning of their journey to who they are in “Keep Us” and yes, I know what I did with the title. I couldn’t resist and I’m definitely not sorry.
> 
> For now, it remains as is. One day I might add something to it but for now, it stands alone.


End file.
